


Observant

by aussiebee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dirty Talk, Kitchen Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Oral Sex, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 16:51:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16814644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebee/pseuds/aussiebee
Summary: Stiles gets hurt a lot. Peter takes care of it.





	Observant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maladicta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maladicta/gifts).



It wasn’t an obvious thing, but Peter was an observant man. The first couple of times he noted and dismissed it, but as Stiles was fond of saying, three times was a pattern. Most recently had involved an altercation with three very confused and very lost kappa, and Stiles had been in the wrong place at the right time and copped a three-clawed swipe across the left shoulder.

Stiles’ cry of pain had alerted Peter to the fact that he was injured, but the blast of defensive magic that had swept out from the human had been strong and effective. Peter was impressed; even in the midst of his pain and confusion Stiles had chosen not to use offensive magic, slaughtering magic, and had instead chosen to protect what Peter belatedly realised was a teenage-equivalent kappa.

From then onwards, as though Stiles’ magic had loosened whatever thrall the kappa had been under, the situation rapidly de-escalated. The Pack made quick arrangements to help the kappa return home, and were dismissed to their assigned tasks. All in all, the entire situation had begun and was resolved in less than an hour, much better than their current track record would have indicated going in.

“I’ll call you later, okay?” Stiles said as Peter turned to watch him climb into the Jeep.

“Maybe I’ll call you?” Scott replied, clapping his hand onto Stiles’ injured shoulder before slinging his leg over his motorbike, apparently ignorant to his hiss of pain. “I just got a text from Allison and I don’t know when I’ll be free, you know?”

“Sure,” Stiles sighed, his body still held carefully to compensate for his injury.

“I think I might-” Peter said softly to Derek, gesturing towards Stiles where he seemed to hesitate in trying to figure out the best way to get into the vehicle without causing himself further pain.

Frowning concernedly, Derek nodded and helped a limping Isaac towards the Camaro. It would take less than twenty minutes for his Achilles tendon to regenerate, but until then walking was going to be quite difficult.

Peter crossed the clearing and deftly plucked the keys from Stiles’ hand, carefully wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist and drawing the pain away, the faint echo of it enough to startle Peter as strongly as its absence startled Stiles, who gasped and slumped against Peter’s side.

“Thanks, Uncle Zombiewolf,” he murmured as they rounded the front of Jeep and Stiles allowed Peter to all-but lift him into the passenger seat.

“Rest,” Peter said with a chuckle, helping Stiles buckle in and carefully closing the door after him.

He returned to the driver’s side and turned the key in the ignition, wincing at the whine that started as the engine spluttered to life.

“She’s still got some life in her, yet,” Stiles told him, not having missed Peter’s expression.

“I guess that’s something you and she have in common,” he replied wryly, mouth twisting into a grin. “Alright; hospital, drive-through, home, and in that order.”

“No hospital,” Stiles said, voice overly-loud as he snapped upright from his slumped position to stare out the windshield, jaw clenched at the sudden flare of pain.

Peter shifted gears then laid his hand gently on Stiles’ shoulder, fingertips touching skin to draw the pain away again. “I saw the kappa claw you, Stiles. You’re not getting away without sutures at the least,” he said apologetically.

“Not that bad,” Stiles denied, but the scent of pain that reached Peter’s nose made a lie of his words.

“Stiles-”

“Peter,” Stiles countered, his tone brooking no argument or discussion, “if you take me, I’ll refuse treatment. It’ll be a waste of time for us both.” Unsure of why, exactly, Stiles was refusing medical treatment, Peter was about to protest when Stiles shrugged with his uninjured shoulder. “Besides, I have a couple of suture kits at home. You can stitch me up while you do the pain drain thing, right?”

“Dear boy, while I have talents,” and he couldn’t help but add the requisite level of lechery to his voice as he continued, _ “many and varied _ talents, needlepoint isn’t one of them, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not an embroidery, dude,” Stiles said, amused. “It just needs to be closed enough to begin healing; I don’t need it to be pretty.”

“It would be a shame to do you such a disservice, my dear, given how lovely your skin is,” Peter countered. “Surely Melissa could-”

“Melissa would tell my dad, and then I’d have to disappoint him again by explaining that I hadn’t called him and instead followed you lot into the forest in the dark to fight beasties unknown. Look, if you don’t want to do it that’s fine, I’ll do it myself.”

Knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Stiles would do exactly that, Peter sighed as he pulled onto the road leading back into town. “Burger King,” he asked disdainfully, “or In-N-Out?”

* * *

Stiles certainly did have a suture kit. Peter was concerned to discover he also had a staple gun specifically for skin, skin glue, a dazzling array of dressings, bandages, ointments, injectable painkillers and antibiotics, and a plethora of other items he wasn’t sure the purpose of.

Stiles held remarkably still while Peter got to work, flushing the three gouges with triple antibiotic ointment Peter was sure he’d seen Deaton use on cats, cutting away some of the worst of the torn skin at the edge of the wound with wickedly sharp Metzenbaum scissors, and then setting a series of running stitches through the skin as Stiles talked him through the process. He was impressed with Stiles’ fortitude, but appalled that the formerly soft-bellied pup had been through enough hell to have developed it to such an extent in the first place.

When he was done, and as he cleaned up and repacked the first aid kit while Stiles left to take a shower, Peter unashamedly snooped. He found the usual schedules and notices on the fridge, bits of old case notes on the table, takeaway menus in a drawer. The living room yielded nothing beyond some family photos of an admittedly-adorably young Stiles and his mother, and apart from the usual detritus in the spare bedroom-cum-study, there was nothing of note there, either. Continuing on to Stiles’ room, Peter went through the drawers in his dresser, raised an eyebrow at the startling collection of toys, lubes and restraints in the shoebox on the top shelf of his closet, didn’t even bother to attempt to crack his password-protected computer, but hit paydirt in the middle of a chemistry textbook.

OVERDUE, PAYMENT REQUIRED, FINAL NOTICE and DELINQUENT all screamed up at him in panic-inducing red text from the bills that had been slotted between the pages, bills from the hospital, Eichen House, MRI and CT scans, lab tests and radiology. There were several letters from an insurance company starting with ‘We are sorry, but…’, and almost every one of the pieces of paper had numbers scrawled over them in Stiles’ hand, an attempt, Peter guessed, at trying to budget in order to pay off the debts.

The last one in the pile, the only one without red on it, was for an admission that Peter vaguely recalled as being for the scar that now horizontally bisected Stiles’ left calf, the result of narrowly avoiding being shot through the muscle proper by an Argent-unaffiliated Hunter who’d blown into town to ride Beacon Hills of its pesky Hale problem. She had been found on the outskirts of Beacon City a week later, and Stiles had been left with nine sutures and a bill to the tune of a thousand or so dollars.

Peter stared at the bill, his mind ticking over. That certainly explained Stiles’ vehemence regarding visiting the hospital for something as simple as stitches, but it was an easy fix. Peter drew out his phone and opened his online banking app, making short work of paying the bills. He searched the rest of Stiles’ desk to see if he could find more, but that seemed to be it.

Setting the desk back to rights when he heard the water shut off, Peter settled into the office chair with the stuffed wolf Peter was sure Stiles kept just to elicit an eye-roll from Derek every time he saw it. He waited until Stiles entered the bedroom to swivel slowly around, legs crossed and one hand on the wolf as though he were a Bond villain.

He was rewarded with a slow smile as Stiles leaned in the doorway with just the towel wrapped around his waist and looked him over. “Has SPECTRE finally come recruiting, Mister Blofeld?”

Inordinately pleased with Stiles’ pickup of his little display, Peter returned the smile with a smirk of his own, his eyes flicking dispassionately over Stiles’ bare torso, cataloguing the deep red marks that would be painful bruises by morning, and the ugly wounds on his shoulder, sutures stark against the creamy skin. It made something coil in his belly, something ugly and possessive, and he briefly allowed himself a moment to consider what he wouldn’t do to keep Stiles from future harm. 

It was a very short moment of contemplation.

Whatever Stiles saw in Peter’s face made his own twitch a little, as though unsure which emotion to go with. He eventually settled on neutral with a warning side of don’t-say-anything-Peter that could be interpreted as clearly as had he said it aloud. He crossed the room slowly, favouring his left knee a little, unselfconsciously tossing the towel over his shoulder to step into a pair of plain navy boxer briefs.

He was interesting, this boy, so very interesting. Where Scott still-- even years after having been Bitten-- still resisted pack etiquette and customs, Stiles had taken to them like a duck to the proverbial water. He was tactile, honest to a fault, loyal, prideful and strong, ruthless and unstinting in his protection of the pack. Peter wondered how much of it was Stiles and how much of it was the acceptance and inclusion he’d gained from being a pack member, and spared an almost-pitying thought for the poor ignorant  _ children _ Stiles had gone to school with who had figured too late that Stiles was more worthy than any of them, and always had been.

Peter saw the covetous glances cast Stiles’ way, remained perpetually amused by his polite rebuttals of the propositions cast before him, his bewildered confusion at the less-than-subtle overtures he found himself subjected to. It wasn’t a confidence thing, because the boy had that in spades; Peter suspected it was a self worth thing, namely that Stiles undervalued his own.

Drawn from his musing by Stiles sitting on the end of the bed and propping one foot up on the seat beside Peter’s leg, Peter lifted the foot into his lap and immediately dug his thumbs into the arch, smiling wryly as Stiles groaned and dropped flat onto the bed, his bicep flexing as he threw his uninjured arm over his face, the dip of his diaphragm pulling his belly flat and his hip bones into sharp relief.

“You’ve lost weight,” Peter said disapprovingly.

Sighing huffily, Stiles lifted his arm to cast a gimlet eye at Peter. “Like, three pounds, Creeperwolf; I got caught up with midterms.”

“Energy drinks are not a nutritional supplement, Stiles.”

_ “Ow,  _ you fucker, right  _ there, yes _ … I know that, but you know what I’m like when I get that focussed on something.”

“You’re breathtaking,” Peter told him honestly, but with enough suggestion in his voice that Stiles kicked him in the thigh. The way his scent changed from pained but content to pained, content and  _ pleased _ was a heady thing, and it made Peter want to sink into the bed next to Stiles and luxuriate in it.

“I’m fucking tired, is what I am,” Stiles sighed, knuckling at his eyes. “Thanks, by the way,” he added, poking at Peter’s hip with his toes until Peter grabbed his foot and held it firmly in both hands.

“You don’t have to thank me, darling,” Peter told him, running his thumbnail up the sole of Stiles’ foot and smirking at the sour look her received for the involuntary reflex it produced. “That’s what pack does.”

He got to his feet and held out his hand to draw Stiles to his, steadying him as he did so he could draw down the sheets for Stiles to crawl beneath them. He waited until Stiles was settled before leaning down over him, hands braced on the bed on either side of his shoulders.

Stiles looked up at him with eyes gone wide, mouth slightly open and his entire body still, breath caught in his throat. “Go straight to sleep, Stiles-- stay off your computer and phone.” He leaned forward and dragged his nose up Stiles’ throat, rumbling happily in his chest when Stiles lifted his chin to allow access. Peter pressed a kiss to his forehead and switched out the light as he went, pulling the bedroom door closed behind him.

He made his way downstairs in the dark and out onto the porch, ensuring the door was locked when he pulled it closed and headed for the sidewalk. He paused there for a long moment, listing to the faint sound of Stiles’ heartbeat slowing as he drifted towards sleep.

“Go home, Peter,” Stiles murmured, making Peter grin widely into the night.

_ Do you do that every time one of us visits, in the hopes that we’ll still be close enough to hear it?  _ he texted Stiles as he turned in the direction of the Preserve, the sound of sleepy laughter echoing in his ears as he made for home.

* * *

The next time Stiles got hurt badly enough to warrant a hospital visit was maybe not entirely Scott’s fault, but Peter was laying the blame squarely at his feet.

The crackling sound of several of Stiles’ ribs being broken by a single punch from a  _ golem, _ of all things, was not a sound Peter was ever likely to forget, and neither was the almost-affronted whimper of pain that accompanied it as Stiles went flying across the clearing.

“Peter,” Derek commanded from his position of crouched defence over Stiles’ prone body, “the  _ shem! _ Pull the scroll thing out of its forehead!”

Trading a glance with Boyd and Isaac to make sure they’d heard, they each nodded and flanked the great clay beast, distracting it sufficiently that Peter could leap astride its shoulders and tear the scroll with its obsidian dowel out from the creature’s face, overbalancing as he compensated for movement that stopped as soon as the scroll was pulled free. He landed a little awkwardly, but spared no attention as he raced across the open space and dropped to his knees by Stiles’ side, joining Derek in drawing pain from him as gently as he knew how.

“Look… at that… thing,” Stiles wheezed, voice hitching in a way that Peter suspected meant a punctured lung. “Meant… to kill. Not… normal.”

“It’s a clay monster, dear heart,” Peter said wryly, glancing at Derek as his nephew’s face paled with the amount of pain he was drawing, “nothing about it is normal.”

Stiles’ answering smile was a wan thing, and stained red around his teeth. “Keep… shem… powerful. Valuable.”

“I have it right here, Stiles,” Peter promised, relieved when the sound of sirens finally became audible and Erica left to intercept it. He looked over his shoulder at the creature, taking in the smooth, featureless face, the arms and crude fists studded with chunks of sharp stone that had so dreadfully damaged Stiles’ chest.

“Good,” Stiles said, his teeth clenching as Derek and Peter failed to draw sufficient pain and Boyd and Isaac knelt by him to help. “You were… created… by the.... Sages,” he said, his breathing increasingly laboured and his heart pounding with the effort to circulate oxygen it just wasn’t getting. “Return… to your… dust.”

A ripe cracking noise startled them all and the watched as the golem broke apart, crumbling into a pile of dark grey dust and shards of stone. By the time Peter turned back to Stiles, he was unconscious. Derek sat back with a gasp, dropping onto his ass as he rubbed a hand distractedly against his chest, phantom pain echoing in his own bones as the sound of sirens drew closer.

“Where the hell is McCall?” Peter demanded of the other betas as he continued to draw away pain in the hopes that it would keep Stiles unconscious.

But no one had an answer, and all Peter could do was seethe as the single most valuable human he’d ever met lay still beneath his hands.

* * *

Time moved in fits and starts after that: the paramedics arriving. Loading Stiles into the ambulance. Arguing with Derek about who would go to the hospital and who would hunt down McCall. Arriving at the hospital, having won that argument, and presenting to emergency. Being denied entry to see Stiles until the Sheriff arrived and dragged Peter in with him.

Scott appearing, face pale and eyes sorrowful as he tripped over apology after useless apology about not having been where he’d said he was going to be, not having done what he’d said he was going to do as though Peter couldn’t smell the stench of sex all over him. Peter calling him on his bullshit and McCall getting angry, defensive, questioning Peter as though he, alone, had the right to hold bedside vigil. The Sheriff, listening to the exchange and asking McCall to leave. That was a moment Peter was saving to revisit on a cold night when he needed the warmth of vindictive satisfaction.

Then the moment, many hours later, when Melissa McCall entered the room and drew Stiles’ father out, telling him in a soft, hushed voice that he didn’t have to worry about payment; that Stiles had been added to someone else’s policy as a beneficiary and all expenses would be paid in full. The Sheriff smelled of confusion, relief, guilt, suspicion and resignation. He thanked Melissa for letting him know and reentered the room, resuming his previous position at Stiles side.

“I suspect that has something to do with you,” he said eventually, as direct as his son. “Would I be correct in that assumption?”

Peter turned the question over in his mind, and considered lying. He could. There would be nothing the Sheriff could do about it, and it would make Peter’s life infinitely more simple. But he would also risk alienating not only Stiles’ father, but a valuable ally to Pack goings-on, and that was a stupid idea.

“Pack takes care of their own,” Peter said instead. “Stiles has more than paid his dues in that regard, and in more than just money.” He held John’s eyes, and took the tacit acceptance for what it was when John sighed heavily and turned back to his son.

* * *

Stiles’ recovery was slow, painfully so, and he bore it with ill grace. He was irritable and in constant low-level pain, enough that he had trouble sleeping once he had been discharged from the hospital and sent home. It was the middle of one of the bad nights when Stiles just couldn’t tolerate it anymore. He groaned as he leveraged his aching body up and off the sofa, the activation of muscles through his chest reshaping his broken ribcage as he moved reminding him that he couldn’t get in the Jeep and drive to where he suddenly realised he wanted to be. He stood in the middle of the living room, hesitating, before leaning carefully down to grab his phone.

_ Can you come by when you’ve got a moment free?  _ he texted, then walked carefully through the house to the kitchen, pulling a can of soda from the fridge and then putting it back when he realised he didn’t actually want it. He sighed a little, careful not to breathe in too deeply, and cursed viciously when the back door opened and he spun around to find Peter standing in the doorway, frowning at him.

“I didn’t actually mean right now,” Stiles told him as his racing heart began to settle.

“Are you alright?” Peter asked, coming into the kitchen and letting the door drop closed behind himself. “I was patrolling when your message came through and I came right here.”

Stiles nodded and leaned forward to brace himself against the counter; maintaining ramrod-straight posture was exhausting, and his chest was just  _ aching _ . “I’m okay, just… can you come do the pain-drain thing for me, just a little? I can’t sleep and I’m just so freaking tired--”

He barely finished the sentence before Peter was there, an arm slipped up beneath his shirt and wound around his waist as he bore Stiles’ weight and helped him up the stairs, drawing the pain away as they went. He moved slowly but surely, and it wasn’t long before Stiles lying back against his pillows, blessedly pain free for the first time in days. He made a pathetically grateful sound of relief as his eyes fell closed, and Peter settled onto the bed beside him, toeing off his shoes and shifting his hand to wrap around Stiles’ bicep to monitor his pain levels.

“You don’t have to stay,” Stiles murmured, drifting inexorably into sleep. “Still got patrol. This’ll do me for tonight. ‘M just so  _ tired.” _

“Don’t you worry your lovely head about it,” Peter said quietly. “I’ve sent a message to Derek and he has patrol covered. And it’s not great hardship to spend the night with you.”

The huff of laughter he got for that was a reward, and Peter wondered if Stiles had any idea how honest a statement that had been.

* * *

He woke the next morning the moment Stiles began stirring, drawing pain away in the hope that he would resettle. He did, but still surfaced into wakefulness, lying still and calm for a long time.

“Peter?” he said softly, the sound hushed in the soft cool of the darkened room.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, like the end of a sigh. “For this. For everything.” He paused, but Peter could tell he wasn’t done. “I don’t know why… why me, I guess, but I’m grateful for it, and for you.”

“You are singular in all things, darling,” Peter told him in an equally soft voice. “If for no other reason, that would be enough.”

Stiles let that settle, clearly thinking it over. “But there are other reasons,” he said eventually, thinking out loud. “Is it my magic? Power?”

Peter rolled over so he was facing Stiles, head pillowed on his arm. “I would never lie to you and say that it wasn’t, but I find it an increasingly less important one, certainly.”

The noise Stiles made was one of frustration, and his eyes glittered darkly as they watched Peter closely. “Then what is it? Because Derek knows more about the supernatural than I do, and while I have the superior research skills, between you and he you have that aspect of pack operations covered. I’m an okay fighter, but nothing to write home about, and you and Boyd are the superior strategists. I don’t understand.”

“You’re fishing, Stiles,” Peter chided gently.

“I’m not,” Stiles returned stubbornly, and honestly. “But I don’t like what I can’t understand, and I have  _ never  _ understood you.” Peter was silent, wondering how best to approach the question Stiles was asking, but Stiles spoke again before he could, and surprised the hell out of him when he did. “If I asked you to kiss me right now, just as we are, would you?”

Peter thought about it, had been thinking about it for an awfully long time if he were honest with himself, and he was always that. “No,” he said slowly. “Not right now. Because I think…” He trailed off and relished the little increase in Stiles’ heart rate that signified his hope and anticipation. “I think if I kissed you right now, I wouldn’t be able to stop. And you’re in no condition to be taking things as far as I would like them to go, so no. Not right now.”

“But soon?” Stiles pressed.

“Soon,” Peter promised, and they both fell back into sleep.

* * *

The next several weeks crawled by, for Peter and Stiles both. Their relationship evolved into something more than it had been, but without it changing fundamentally. Derek had some idea of what they were doing, which Stiles found hilarious and Peter found resentfully touching, but it was Stiles that Derek took aside one chilly afternoon, making sure that he was bundled warmly in a blanket to guard against the cool wind as they sat together on the back steps of the pack house as the sun cast long, golden rays of light through the trees.

Derek was clearly working up to saying something, but Stiles was content to wait, watching the myriad coloured leaves blowing across the yard in an oddly-soothing haphazardry. 

“Be gentle with him,” Derek said suddenly, sounding a little melancholy and a little bemused. “Whatever you and he are doing, wherever you see this going, just… he’s deserving of kindness.”

That wasn’t exactly what Stiles had been expecting, but he replied to Derek with the seriousness his instruction deserved. “Seems like that’s a Hale family trait,” he said lightly, glancing over at Derek who flushed and couldn’t meet his eyes. “Us Stilinskis don’t really do casual, Derek,” he continued. “I’m not sure where this is going either, to be honest, but I don’t see it being a short-term thing.”

Apparently that was sufficient for Derek, who nodded once, then leaned over and gently bumped his shoulder against Stiles’. “Come on,” he said after a moment, “let’s go back inside. Peter’ll have my head if you get sick or relapse in your recovery because I’ve kept you out here in the cold.”

Smirking evilly, Stiles allowed Derek to help him up. “Mmm, don’t you just love it when Peter gets all protective?”

Shooting him a flat look, Derek shook his head. “Feel free not to share. Ever.”

“When he does that growly thing in the back of his throat? You know, Derek, when he does that  _ thing-” _

“Our friendship is over.”

“Or! Or when he does the eye-flashy thing when he gets jealous-”

“You’re out of the pack.”

Laughing and following Derek back inside, Stiles let the warmth and contentedness of home, family and pack settle over his shoulders and warm him from within. “How about when he sees me take off my shirt and-”

_ “Stiles!” _

* * *

The fallout, when it came, was rudely abrupt and yet utterly unsurprising for it.

“You,” Stiles hissed, nearly tearing the back door off its hinges as he stormed into the kitchen, ignoring the sour look Isaac shot him at having startled badly enough to slop hot coffee over his own hand. Stiles cast down a stack of papers onto the table in front of Peter, half covering the croissant he had been eating, as he paced across the kitchen and back again with his hands shoved into his hair. “I can’t believe… what am I saying, of  _ course _ I can believe… of all the presumptuous, offensive--”

Tuning out Stiles’ rant, Peter sorted through the papers, impressed at the amount of laws Stiles had to have broken to obtain the information he had found. “What, exactly, is it that you object to, Stiles?” Peter asked calmly, ignoring Isaac when the younger man cast an anxious look between the two of them and left the room in a hurry. “The fact that I paid these bills, or that I didn’t tell you that I had?”

“All of it!” Stiles exploded, the lights in the kitchen flickering, as well as those throughout the rest of the house, if Isaac’s startled curse was an indication. “How dare you, Peter. How  _ dare _ you?”

Peter managed to withhold a smirk as Derek and Isaac slipped out to the garage and into the Camaro. Cowards. Returning his attention to Stiles who was now staring out the window and clearly working himself up into a state, Peter simply got to his feet to pour another cup of coffee, fixing one for Stiles as well.

“I dare because I am Peter Hale, sweetling.”

Turning on him like a cornered dog, Stiles advanced until he was toe-to-toe with Peter. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Peter; I am so indescribably angry right now I don’t think you can even comprehend the degree to which I am having to control myself.”

And god, the boy was  _ glorious _ in his fury. Dark eyes turned almost molten, fair skin pink across the cheeks and lush at the mouth, every line of his body held taut and flexed as though ready to spring. His words were crisply enunciated and dripping with disdain, and Peter wanted to do nothing more than touch, all over, to rub his face on every inch of skin he could uncover, to lick and taste and  _ glut _ himself on the sparking energy that crackled over Stiles like an aura he could almost  _ see. _

“I can see, dear boy, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat, so it’s really a waste of your energy.” He looked pointedly over Stiles’ shoulder to where the window box of herbs over the sink was overflowing with lush herbs, some of which Peter wasn’t even sure had been there before Stiles had burst in.

“You had  _ no right,” _ Stiles said, the force behind his words growing. “None. It’s none of your business, and it’s not your responsibility.  _ I’m _ not your responsibility.”

“Don’t mistake my calm for apathy, Stiles,” Peter warned, the flash of  _ wrong _ that burned through him at Stiles’ words making him want to curl his lip. “You sling these words around like they mean nothing, like you don’t know what they do to me when I know you do, and expect me to stay level-headed about it. Or is it a fight you’re looking for? Do you want to take this all the way to the end?”

“Don’t even think about trying to turn this into the ‘How Peter Has Been Wronged Hour’,” Stiles sneered, “because it’s not about you, beyond what a fucking liberty you took when you decided to insert yourself into my life to do as you fucking please!”

“Oh, but I didn’t have to insert myself into your life, did I, sweetheart?” Peter asked silkily. “You  _ invited  _ me. With your sideways glances and your lifted chin, with your play at submission when we both know you’re anything  _ but _ submissive. Everything you have ever done- every interaction you and I have ever had has been with the full knowledge that what you were doing was deliberate. So cut the shit, and give up the victim schtick, because it’s getting old.”

Stiles’ eyes shot up his forehead and he glared daggers at Peter. “I beg your pardon? A victim? You pried into my life, my finances, and then took it upon yourself to pay an exorbitant amount of money to make all my problems go away. What exactly were you expecting as repayment for that, Peter? Because you’re not getting a fucking thing from me beyond every fucking cent you paid paid back to you with interest.”

Ah. There it was. “You know, I think I shot myself in the foot with the things I presume that you know. While we will most certainly revisit the comment about the repayment you assume I expected, perhaps I have been remiss in your education regarding pack ties and responsibilities. It is the responsibility of the pack to take care of its own, Stiles, in all ways. Physically, emotionally, psychologically, financially. You have been hurt and injured in service to the pack… paying your medical bills is the equivalent of a company providing medical insurance to its employees.”

“So I’m an  _ employee?” _ Stiles spat.

“Is Isaac?” Peter fired back, Stiles’ anger starting to get under his skin. “Is Boyd or Erica or Lydia? Because we’ve paid medical bills for all of them, too. You’re conflating this far beyond the issue you think it is. It boils down to this: I can, and so I do.” He shrugged. “Do with that what you will.”

“You still didn’t have the right!” Stiles exploded, the foundations of the house groaning with the force of it. “Who do you think you are? What makes you think--”

_ “That’s what you do for the person you love!” _ Peter roared back, unable to keep his calm any longer in the face of Stiles’ insults to every instinct Peter had as a were.

The silence in the kitchen was ringing, the glass in the windows and door vibrating with the residual energy of Peter’s outburst. They stood in the middle of the room, staring at each other in mutually wide-eyed shock, Stiles’ chest heaving a little with the force of his breath, Peter frozen and his mind horrifyingly still.

Then Stiles was in his arms before either of them were aware of the movement, his thighs coming up and around Peter’s hips as he pressed his mouth bruisingly to Peter’s, eyes bright and beautiful with want and need when Peter’s hands came up to his ass, gripping firmly as he turned them to press Stiles against the fridge and kiss him back hungrily, his tongue sliding firmly against Stiles’, and then again when he groaned his approval.

A hand sneaking up into Peter’s hair wasn’t much to distract him, but the way it gripped and jerked his head backwards sure as hell did. Stiles wasted no time in pressing biting kisses along his jaw and down his throat, eliciting a high whine that Peter couldn’t quite bring himself to feel embarrassed by, at least not at present. The feel of teeth on either side of his larynx, positioned to rip his throat entirely out made Peter’s hips jerk wildly, and he slammed Stiles back against the fridge again, trusting that he could take it and gratified when he gasped and arched his back in an attempt to get even closer.

“... _ the _ most infuriating--”

“Oh fuck  _ you, _ you’re one to talk--”

“The things I’m going to do to you--”

“Big talk given I still have  _ pants on, _ Peter--”

They ended up on the floor, Stiles hissing as the bare skin of his newly-naked back met the cold tiles, but even that wasn’t enough to slow them down. Peter lifted Stiles’ legs so his thighs were draped over Peter’s own before he reached up to tear off his own shirt, luxuriating in the heated way Stiles outright stared at him as he fumbled with his own belt, bruised mouth open and lips slick with the combined efforts of their kisses. Peter undid his own belt before knocking Stiles’ hands out of the way to finish undoing his, too.

“You might want to hold on tight, darling,” he smirked, and without further hesitation he drew Stiles’ cock out of his barely-opened pants and swallowed as much of it down as he could in one go.

The string of expletives that spilled from Stiles’ mouth made Peter almost choke on a laugh and his dick, but he regrouped and began sucking in a hard, rhythmic pattern as Stiles groaned long and low and grabbed Peter’s hair again, not forcing, but definitely encouraging him to continue what he was doing. Peter was happy to oblige, and took great pleasure in shifting them both just enough that he could drag Stiles’ chinos down far enough to take his balls in one hand, thumb tracing maddeningly over the seam down the middle as his index and middle fingers explored further back to press gently against Stiles’ asshole. Neither of them were prepared for it to go any further than that, but judging by the frustrated noises Stiles was making it was absolutely in the very near future for both of them.

Stiles’ hips began a maddening undulation, rolling up smoothly in time with the pattern Peter had established, and the feeling of his thigh clenching beneath Peters hand made his own cock pulse. The scent of Stiles and arousal all around him was heady and Peter moaned as he changed things up a little, making the blow job sloppy and a little faster, even as he kept up the suction. The tart tang of Stiles on his tongue made him want to spend the rest of his life with the boy’s magnificent cock halfway down his throat, and if those brutally competent hands kept up that massaging-tugging thing they were doing in his hair, Peter was pretty sure he could die happy.

“Peter,” Stiles gasped, his hips faltering a little and stuttering into a jerking motion for a moment before resuming a semblance of his prior rhythm. Peter reached up with his free hand, aiming for Stiles chest, but almost had his brain short out when Stiles grabbed his hand and stuck the first three fingers into his mouth to suck on, mimicking Peter’s pattern.

“Can’t wait for you to fuck me,” Stiles sighed as Peter felt his balls draw up, his orgasm fast approaching. “Want to feel your cock in me, I‘ve wanted it for so fucking long. It’s gonna hurt so good, Peter, gonna fill me up and make me yours, make sure everyone fucking knows it, too.”

Peter took back everything he had said about Stiles not knowing what he was doing; the wolf in him was howling at his words, aching to mark, to bite and claim. He swallowed Stiles a little further down and pressed in a tiny bit more to Stiles’ ass, making Stiles chuck filthily as he pulled Peter’s fingers out again.

“You like that, don’t you? Everyone knowing you’ve marked me up? Being able to scent what you’ve done to me, the things we’ve done together? I like it too. Might leave a few marks of my own on you, show them that it’s reciprocal? Fuck,” he added, the word guttural and base.

He knew Stiles was close, and more than anything in that moment Peter wanted to taste it, wanted to be selfish and keep everything of Stiles for himself. So he kept doing what he was doing, preening as Stiles’ litany of filthy increased in volume and creativity until he was fairly writhing on the floor and coming with a hoarse cry, his hands tightening and holding Peter’s face as close as he could as he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.

“Come here,” Stiles gasped eventually, his nails digging into Peter’s shoulder and drawing him up so his body was blanketing Stiles’. Stiles shoved at his jeans and grabbed his ass, encouraging him to rut in the slippery join of leg and groin. “Come on me, Peter,” he growled, catching Peter’s earlobe in his teeth and nipping sharply at it so goosebumps broke out down Peter’s back.

Lifting his head and blindly seeking, Stiles met him with a searing kiss and canted his hips up, meeting Peter’s movements until they were grinding together. Peter lost his mind a little, his movements and sounds becoming animalistic and raw, but given the way Stiles’ own reactions become more frantic it wasn’t something he was averse to.

“Stiles, bite down,” Peter ordered breathlessly when he was close.

Stiles didn’t hesitate, just sank his teeth into the meat of Peter’s shoulder and Peter came, pulsing hot across Stiles’ groin in a way he knew he’d never get tired of. He rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm and barely managed to roll off Stiles before collapsing next to him on the tiles, filthy, sweaty and euphoric.

“Derek is never going to forgive us,” Stiles said after they’d gotten their breath back, only to lose it again as they began to laugh, side-by-side where they lay on the white kitchen tiles.

* * *

“Peter, I am going to straight up murder you,” Stiles promised politely weeks later, hanging his keys on the hook by the front door.

“What? Why?” Peter asked, affecting hurt as Stiles entered the study and frowned at him.

“Did you pay for Dad to have a whole heap of tests done just so he could shove his cholesterol and heart function results in my face as he ate a double Whopper with extra cheese and extra bacon?”

“I did not pay for it so he could do that, no.”

“But you did pay for the tests.”

“I did.”

“And you knew he would do this.”

“I didn’t know it would be a burger,” Peter countered slyly. “I assumed it would be a donut.”

Stiles laughed and came around the large desk to perch on the edge of it, lifting his foot to rest it on the edge of the chair between Peter’s legs. “I’m telling him you said that.”

Sliding his hands up Stiles’ calf to curl around the back of his knee, Peter rolled the chair forward and reached up to rest his hand on Stiles’ neck and pull him down for a slow kiss. “What’s it going to take to convince you to keep your mouth shut?”

Stiles pretended to consider it. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me and we can negotiate the terms of our contract?” he suggested.

Lacing his fingers with Stiles’ as he was led from the room, Peter thought there was nothing in the world he would rather be doing.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to my #saltwife, my Great Aussie Sleepover mate, my fandom next-of-kin, @Maladicta! This is no pair of Italian leather brogues on sale, but I hope you like it!!
> 
> However...
> 
> Holy shit, I struggled so hard with writing Peter's voice! And I was aiming for amoral!Peter like I know you like, but somehow ended back at Fluff City, so.... uh, you're welcome? Look, I added a bj to make up for it, so gloss over the pseudo-angst and feels and you'll be right.
> 
> Happy birthday, my friend!


End file.
